


Bottle Flies and Best Friends

by Eshnoazot



Series: Ineffable Bureaucracy [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Beelzebabe, Beelzebub is CONFUSED, Beelzebub is fly kin, Boundaries, Chronic Pain, Complicated Relationships, Consent, Dealing With Trauma, Gabriel needs to STOP and THINK, He confused but he got the spirit, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Other, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Trust Issues, Wings are not colour symbolism, discussions on love, emotional immaturity, improvise adapt overcome, trust building, wing fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 19:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20296693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eshnoazot/pseuds/Eshnoazot
Summary: “I would like permission to love you,” Gabriel announced, and then added as an afterthought, “Please.”“No.”“No?” Gabriel frowned, sitting up straight, “But we were interested in each other’s interests, and we went to a new and interesting place, and there was a couple’s activity?”





	Bottle Flies and Best Friends

Gabriel has his eyes narrowed into thin slits, and Beelzebub has set an absolute mask of boredom despite the agony when they finally regret meeting him. It had been Archangel Michael that faxed over the official paperwork with a personal note scrawled on a post-it note reprimanding Beelzebub for the arson of a church. It was a baseless accusation, and so Dagon had sent back over the official deconsecration paperwork of the gin bar in a _foul mood_ and that had been that – until ‘Gabriel’ himself had faxed over a _‘Formal Request for An Inter-Office Meeting’_ and with proper documentation and evidence.

Beelzebub had come purely because ‘Gabriel’, had provided over _346 pages_ of paperwork and document using every single loophole to force a meeting, and it was clearly a desperate cry for attention. Beelzebub had been certain it had been _someone else_ in his office to actually do the legwork, _probably Uriel that soft-hearted bitch_ because the spelling kept switching between dialects. Beelzebub hadn’t comprehended the wanker actually _‘being the bigger angel’_ even in paperwork form. It made more sense that someone else just wanted Gabriel to _actually fucking deal_ with his problems for once, and the thought made Beelzebub glad that Hell generally just promoted bottling your feelings up forever and stewing in your growing hatred.

Proper documentation _was_ proper documentation though, and although it would have been 100% within Hell’s policy of sticking a finger up at Heaven – Heaven was still processing paperwork requests from _other_ Hell departments. It was much easier to screw over Angels who generally were far away, and too finicky to let their robes get dirty – but screwing over a Demon neighbour who could get _access_ to your office was another thing. After being processed, and a meeting date had been set, ‘Gabriel’ had insisted on it being held in a community centre with mirrored walls – apparently a dance studio for pretty little ballerina children.

It was an enormous red flag, and Beelzebub had slipped a bunch of knives into their suit in anticipation of Archangel Michael waiting there with a fuck-off sized Demon-killing sword.

It was a surprise then, when the room had been empty, apart from a glass table, and two plastic molded chairs. Beelzebub was honestly surprised when it _was actually_ Archangel Gabriel in the _flesh_ that appeared, and not, as the betting pool had thought, Sandalphon with a conflict resolution manual. He didn’t look entirely like something had been shoved up his backside, but that was no guarantee that the _Archangel clique _hadn’t forced him to come.

The heart inside their corporation is a little defective and skipped a heartbeat entirely when he finally appeared. Then, another poorly designed organ let out an enormous pang of something that felt like something missing and relief. It was almost like hunger, but certainly not in the stomach region.

All this would have been a lot to deal with on any given day, in the endless muddle of eternity – but today was also a Bad Day. It was a _Bad Day_, in terms of the chronic pain that radiated from Beelzebub’s wings, but the bureaucracy of Hell wasn’t just going to give them a day off (There is no holiday leave, or _Satan-forbid_, _sick_ _leave_, in Hell) and there is a long list of things that need to be marked off today before they drop the urgent but unimportant leftover things into the lap of some other suitably stressed and time-poor Demon.

Beelzebub’s wings are constructed from phantom pain, infested with intangible specters and peripheral phantoms of the night. They burn with tiny needles, ache and shake with muscles that are on the verge of collapse, and though the pain is brutish and momentous, there is no relief to seek. It is a malignant pain that cannot be so easily fixed with a butcher’s blade. It causes a radiating agony down their back, and no matter how Beelzebub sits, they cannot find a comfortable position.

It is something that is always on their mind, just a little. Sometimes it’s just at the periphery, barely noticeable and lingering. Sometimes it’s like a speck of dusk in the sunlight. Sometimes, it’s a knife stabbed through their back, slicing into their heart. Beelzebub shifts uncomfortably in their seat, trying to find a way to relax into the chair but there is no comfort offered in unmoulded plastic chairs. They would know since they’re pretty sure that little shit Demon Crowley invented those.

The glass table, the mirrors, the plastic – it’s security theatre mixed in with a sprinkle of suspicion. Gabriel is a little justifiably paranoid after they’ve both failed to execute a bunch of traitors, who are apparently _immune to everything_, and so this is the first meeting they’ve had since the whole clusterfuck. They didn’t part on good terms, exactly, both a little too angry and not able to pin down exactly _why_. The anger persists, and the first half of the meeting is so uncomfortable that both are awkwardly only saying the bare minimum of what needs to be said. There are so many uncomfortable things happening, some of them entirely new, and Beelzebub just wants to go back home and have Dagon punch a hole through their ears for the clarity of it.

Beelzebub is squirming in their chair, unable to just let out the discomfort which is rippling through their veins. With all this ease of surveillance around them, Beelzebub doesn’t realise just how _much_ they’re squirming until Gabriel levels a ridiculously _unimpressed_ look at them. His eyes are narrowed, Beelzebub regrets not sending an unpaid intern in their place.

“Sorry, am I _boring_ you?” Gabriel retorts hotly, and Beelzebub manages to barely keep an incredulous look off their face. The answer is _yes always,_ and Gabriel seems to realise that the very second, he finishes speaking. He grins broadly to hide the fact that his body language says _‘scowling’_ but it’s just as effective as the pale beige cardigan he wears to starve off human attention. It’s the Satan-damned twenty-first century and Gabriel hasn’t discovered the miraculous human invention of _colour_.

“What’s up,” Gabriel tries again, this time looking like he is being _greatly inconvenienced_, “Do you need to go to the little demon’s room? Can you reach the changing table on your own? I can find you a booster seat if you need.”

“Fuck you,” Beelzebub retorts _loudly_, to bask in the look of reproach, “I’ve just never experienced this kind of soul-crushing boredom in my life. I can’t believe you’ve single-handedly outdone all the Professional torturers of Hell to do it. I can’t believe that you _hand draw your own perfect little graphs for perfect little reports_ that no one is _ever_ going to read. Talk about a_ waste_ of time.”

Gabriel glowers for just a second, but then quirks his head a little and _squints_ his eyes.

“That’s _barely_ even a lie,” Gabriel replies, looking a little concerned, and then a little _offended_, “I deserve at least something semi-plausible; I _know _you secretly love my romantically-styled penmanship. I just upgraded to a beautifully crafted fountain pen in a department-mandated modernization move, and the glide of the ink is _sensational_.”

Beelzebub, who now exclusively used cheap disposable pens they stole from university and college students before class, screwed their face up at the concept that modernisation had only _recently_ moved Heaven from Quills to Fountain Pens. Gabriel was preening like he honestly believed Beelzebub gave a _shit_ about his penmanship beyond being legible enough to file the appropriate paperwork in return.

“_Right_,” Beelzebub replied, “So we agree that you’re going to either be more entertaining, or I’m going to send an unpaid intern to the next inter-office meeting.”

Gabriel huffed in annoyance, and leaned across the table onto his arms, “Or you could be _honest _with me? I know you’re capable of that _Beelz_.”

Beelzebub immediately issues an appropriately sharp look at the unforgivable and vomit-inducing _nickname_ the Angel has bestowed upon them.

Gabriel’s eyebrow droops, “Buzzy? Bee?”

“_No_.”

“Oh,” Gabriel droops a little, “You’ve been honest with me before, anyway. You once told me you thought my face was _an assault_ to the senses.”

“Yes, a crime against _God_,” Beelzebub helpfully replies.

Their mood is lifted immediately when Gabriel’s eye starts twitching. He can’t seem to decide whether labeling him a crime against God constitutes _blasphemy_ if it’s just the usual brand of rudeness that his delicate sensibilities must deal with when Demons are lurking near, if he’s being temped into pride, or if it’s a _demonic compliment_.

It’s exactly why Beelzebub has been sitting on this comment for half a century: The existential questioning that Gabriel will drag back to Heaven until Michael sends Beelzebub a rather rude Fax will be _glorious_. _Two birds, one stone_: Michael is just as much of a wanker. Gabriel, quite predictably, looks like he’s sucked too deeply on a lemon and hasn’t yet figured out to stop _sucking_. Gabriel just _generally sucks_, so they can understand the difficulty he is facing.

The sight is almost enough to make them forget about the hollow burn between their shoulders and heart and gut, but Beelzebub shifts gently and it’s the wrong move. A sharp stab of pain wrenches up from their back, and they instinctively jerk in their chair to release the sudden pain spike. The movement telegrams _everything_ to Gabriel, who is frowning with a little more _concern_ than he had earlier.

“Are you hurt?” Gabriel asks, now looking a little alarmed, “Has there been any disruptions in Hell? I’m not retraining your replacement, I just got _you_ to be _tolerable_. Are the Demons revolting?”

“No, the demons are just hideous,” Beelzebub replies, and watches the joke fly over Gabriel’s head and land somewhere in _‘never going to get it-Ville’_ and so he doesn’t look at all convinced that there isn’t another civil war brewing and fermenting deep in the bowels of hell, “Additionally, It’s none of your damned business anyway.”

Gabriel _inspects _them like a puzzle to be solved. His gaze trails slowly, and Beelzebub feels utterly _exposed_ as his eyes positively _drip_ across their body. It’s much too intimate for an inter-office meeting when Gabriel won’t even remove his _coat_ in the heat of summer. It’s too much when he insists on meeting over _a glass table_, so Beelzebub won’t use the cover to stab him in the thigh.

It’s too much, because their acquaintanceship is in tatters, and no one can quite understand why.

Gabriel’s glance is long, _methodical_, but perhaps a little _slower_ than what he could have optimally provided. It takes far more liberties than Beelzebub would allow any demon to take with them. Beelzebub squirms in their seat and captures a _hiss_ of pain on the very edge of their lips. Gabriel is looking at them in a very considerate but patient way like he knows exactly what to do to steal a _hiss _from their lips.

Gabriel has the emotional intelligence of a lobster, _post-broil_.

“Your _wings_,” Gabriel replies confidently, leaning back into his chair and letting the atmosphere relax, “I can’t know exactly what’s wrong until I actually _see _them. Have you fractured something? I’ve only ever seen Uriel after he slammed into a mountain and snapped a clean break straight through his humerus, ulna, _AND_ radius. He might have snapped a tendon too – he _does_ fly a little crooked...”

Beelzebub stiffened, “My wings are _fine_.”

Gabriel shrugged, “Prove it.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Beelzebub snapped back with a purr, just to watch Gabriel drew back in surprise. He looks _flummoxed_ by the words: another step forward into the familiarity that was as stable as quicksand. Gabriel meets Beelzebub’s eyes, and the gaze is as sharp as a knife; he stares them down, into their soul and seems to _rifle_ somewhere in there for whatever it is that he needs to see. He still looks nervous, and Beelzebub feels a dark thrill that he is no longer in control.

They don’t have time to _gloat _though, because Gabriel immediately leans forwards and suddenly there are gigantic gleaming white wings extending from his back. His wings are the crowning _glory _of heaven; such a pure unblemished white with primary feathers almost the length of his body.

He is a walking stereotype, the very image of an angel upon the earth – and the _enormous fucking wanker knew_ it.

Angels are built differently from Humans – there is their celestial form which can be made into any shape, or shapeless in general. They’d all played around with it at the start, building their forms out of endless eyes and thousands of wings and rings for fun, but their true celestial form was _infinite_ and _boundless_. But Angels in _‘human’_ form were still different: though they could hide and pull wings into existence effortlessly that were more grace than sinew. Still, they needed the right equipment to make that a reality.

There are _rules_ to this kind of thing, although there sometimes are _not_.

Gabriel’s down feathers and semiplumes look like the _softest_ thing the universe had ever produced, while his secondary feathers look like they are made for war. It’s _enormously unfair_, and Beelzebub swears that his feathers gleam with hints of the gentlest ethereal silver. His primary feathers are so large that they are barely contained in the room until he curls them to tuck behind his back very primly. Beelzebub has the opportunity to observe the powerful muscles working under layers of feathers in the mirror behind him. They are _beautiful_, they are _perfect_ in an effortless way that_ steals_ the air from Beelzebub’s throat for a second.

Gabriel looks powerful and relaxed, and so very _expectant_. Beelzebub grumbles – but they are _stuck_ now. If they don’t pull out their own wings, Gabriel will be calling them a _coward_ for the next thousand years – or even worse, he won’t say anything at all but give them _smug looks_ for eternity.

_Sickening_.

Beelzebub grits their teeth as their wings are brought forth. Their wings – despite what you may have heard – are not _black_. Angels and Demons have the same wings, although demons tend to keep theirs better groomed. There is no _colour symbolism_ in the wings of celestials, and many can change the colour of their wings on thought anyway. But many of them have _preferred_ forms, much like how Satan is _always_ male, even when he _appears _to not be, while also being fundamentally genderless. Dagon has been female since she declared it to be so sometime in the thirties (Beelzebub isn’t sure what thirties – what was the point in numbering years if they _kept repeating_?). Michael switches it up regularly and doesn’t give much of a shit, claiming she needs to stop his wardrobe from getting dusty, but always keeps the same rusty coloured hair and dark eyes. Hastur doesn’t understand the concept of human presentation really, but he doesn’t really understand much at all.

Gabriel has always chosen to present as an _enormous fucking tosser_.

Beelzebub’s wings are glossy, they are a deep green at the scapula and fade to a dull purple at the tips. The closest example on earth is a [purple glossy starling](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/b6f34f75-75dd-49f6-804d-c1f125ed406d/d4saj4j-9424a662-d3e7-45d6-a057-b7fd228d77ee.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2I2ZjM0Zjc1LTc1ZGQtNDlmNi04MDRkLWMxZjEyNWVkNDA2ZFwvZDRzYWo0ai05NDI0YTY2Mi1kM2U3LTQ1ZDYtYTA1Ny1iN2ZkMjI4ZDc3ZWUuanBnIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.d1oXI4ttiSAMcLt2E1Un9vx7ttA_VAzlDt8o_tJl4EE), which is enormously grating to them. Dagon’s got fucking _vulture_ wings that always look a little rough, ominous and feral. She’s trying to figure out how to get them pierced to match her ears. It’s a very attractive form of sacrilege that means Dagon has always been at least a little lusted after because Demon’s don’t do _love_. Beelzebub’s wings are _shiny and glossy, and iridescent, _and they don’t even have the courtesy to look like they’re colourful for the sake of aposematism.

The colours though, make them think of _bottle flies_, with brilliant, metallic, blue-green hues with black markings; they are _jewels _which soar through the air. It is a travesty that the human creatures, and even celestials to a great extent, dismiss flies as pitch-black _malicious_ devours of flesh. Perhaps they can cause_ pain_, but they simply do what they are _designed_ to do. Where is the acknowledgment when the humble fly is tasked with biosurgery by doctors to debride flesh, help with tissue regeneration, and lower bacteremia? Where is the fact that flies are the sanitation workers of the universe, cleaning up after everyone else's messes? Beelzebub burns with anger whenever they think about it, but Beelzebub is also burning with anger _most days_ now.

Gabriel looks a little stunned by their wings. There is a certain stereotype about the blackened, filthy and sooty wings of demons – but Beelzebub knows that their wings are perfectly groomed with nary a feather out of place. At first, they think he is about to _laugh_ at the tiny demon with wings fresh out of a toy store’s catalogue but slowly realises that he looks incredibly impressed. He’s admiring their wings in the mirror behind them, they realise. The top of their feathers were the shiniest, although significantly shorter than Gabriel’s, in part due to their height difference. There are also structural differences though; Gabriel’s osprey-like wings are narrow and meant for soaring on updrafts; wings build for strength and long-distances.

Beelzebub’s wings fold differently and are meant for hovering in place. They are shaped like a hummingbirds’ and are uniquely designed to allow them to move forward and backward and hover mid-air and fly upside down. They are built from lean muscle and powerful, although are agonising sometimes. They are wings designed for mobility and precision.

Gabriel stares for a little longer than is polite, and Beelzebub feels themselves growing red in the face from the embarrassment of it. They are about to snap their teeth very loudly when he elects to comment.

“It’s a musculature thing, _I think_,” Gabriel finally says, running a hand across his face like he knows _the fuck_ what he’s doing, “You’re holding your secondary deltoids, brachialis, and triceps weirdly_. Or_ it might be referred pain coming up from your carpi ulanris, pectorals, or flexor carpi radialis.”

It’s clear that Gabriel has _no fucking idea about anything useful_, and Beelzebub is darkening by the second, with a harsh bite to their words, “Oh, am I so grateful that _Doctor Gabriel_ was here to tell me that maybe, what is causing my wings to _hurt_, _could be literally any muscle in my wing_. I couldn’t have _possibly _figured that out.”

“So, it _is_ your wings that hurt,” Gabriel confirmed idly with a smug smile, “I _do_ have some expertise here, _Beelzebabe_.”

Beelzebub glowered at the new nickname, and at the trap, they’d managed to get themselves caught in - until Gabriel looks like he’s gotten the point that he’d catch more flies with vinegar, than with honey. It feels a little too easy to fall back into this pattern of trading insults and barbs, but they’ve been doing it for so long, maybe they can avoid any awkwardness.

“Lord Beelzebub.”

“_Lord Beelzebub_,” Gabriel amended, but certainly not in the _right tone_. The _absolute fucking cheek of it_, the absolute _gall_-

“I maintain this corporation through regular fitness,” Gabriel flexed his muscles while Beelzebub visibly gagged, “Gotta keep my celestial temple in perfect working condition, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to maintain this high level of _utmost physical perfection_ if I didn’t know which muscles I had, and how to target them effectively. You can’t skip leg day, and you can’t skip wing day. You should try Pilates sometime.”

Gabriel is a fitness tosspot who geeks out over fountain pens, smells like printer paper and enjoys a well filled out form. He thinks his penmanship is romantic, has a ghastly arrogant accent, and is completely _fucking clueless_ about humanity. He’s the messenger of God; a _glorified celestial post-man_. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays this Archangel from the swift completion of his appointed rounds, even though they have a decent email and fax service just straight-up available for free.

Perhaps, Gabriel is just enough of a _bastard_ to be worth knowing.

Beelzebub squinted suspiciously at him, “How exactly do you fit that much _bullshit_ into such a small corporation?”

“That’s classified information, _demon prince_,” Gabriel retorts, and it’s just _wanker_ enough that Beelzebub relaxes a little, “Your wing socket looks like it has a whole 180 degrees of rotation, right Beelz? Let me help you stretch them out and we’ll see where the problem is.”

Gabriel stands, and the chair scrapes against the polished floor loudly. His hands jerk out like he’s going to try and grab a handful of Beelzebub’s wings, and they bare their teeth at him on instinct. Although he _is_ a fool, he is not _foolish _enough to touch a demon without their expressed consent – without planning to murder them anyway. Gabriel certainly understands the practicality of killing people off so they can’t come to seek _revenge _later, and it’s quite practical and demonic of him.

Gabriel considers this reaction, in a surprising fit of intelligence. _It must be his turn with the collective single brain cell of Heaven_, they decide quietly, and pointedly don’t think about the collective common sense of Hell.

Then, he removes his ridiculous beige cardigan, and carefully folds it on the glass table. He grins a little too arrogantly when Beelzebub startles. His pale scarf joins it, and then he’s pulling off his disgustingly crisp turtleneck until he’s bare-chested. He folds his clothing into perfect little squares and smoothed out the wrinkles until it is _perfect_. When he moves, he seems to be wearing tracksuit bottoms – and Beelzebub was pretty sure he had been wearing his typical ugly blue-grey suit pants when he entered.

“Come on, come sit down with me,” Gabriel announces with a smirk, as he stalks over to a corner of the room and sits down cross-legged with unnatural grace, “This way I can see your back in the mirror without having to _defile_ my hands by touching you, or you exposing your back to me. Clear?”

He’s staring at them very expectantly, very _pointedly. _If he wants accolades for acknowledging that Beelzebub doesn’t want to be touched, he certainly isn’t going to _ever_ get them. He doesn’t ask for anything though – and he had _invented_ a reason why he didn’t even want to touch them. A reason, even though his knees were always poking into their thighs, and he was a semi-touch starved Angel who seemed to thrive on casual shoulder touches, weird fist bumps against shoulders and leaning in just a tad too far. It’s either intended to help Beelzebub save face – or, because _Gabriel is an arsehole_, it’s to save Gabriel’s own pride from the cruelty of being rejected. There is no way to determine which is the most likely scenario, and overthinking intentions is the surest way to subject yourself to torture.

Either way, Beelzebub _scoffs_. They are not predictable, and certainly, do not bend to the whims of an _Angel._ Still, there _is_ personal gain here, and at the very least, Beelzebub can write up a report confirming that they know more about the Archangel Gabriel’s physical abilities to help inform their armies in the (eventual? Maybe?) war. Beelzebub slinks over after only a little hesitation, and with only a manageable and healthy amount of suspicion.

They take a seat cross-legged on the floor opposite Gabriel – but certainly not within his reaching distance. A Demon has to be smart about being in quarters with an Angel anyway. They eye him pointedly until he spreads one of his wings wide. The other can’t extend without smashing into the mirrored corner. He’s boxed himself in, perhaps intentionally and it’s a little _touching_ if Beelzebub ignores the fact that he’s just a nosey fucker who wants to know everyone’s business.

Beelzebub does _not_ change their outfit to anything resembling sportswear. They are perfectly happy to stay suited up, although they do rearrange the red sash for visibility sake. They won’t be caught dead wearing anything less than full regalia around an Angel who barely seems to remember that every nickname he flings at them is just another nail they’ll strike into his wings post-apocalypse 2.0.

Besides, they are _literally celestials_. Wings are not bound by the mortal plane and can manifest through clothing _perfectly fine_. There is no _logical reason_ for Gabriel to get undressed. Gabriel clearly just wanted to strip off for the hell of it.

“Okay, so your pectorals are used when you pull wings down,” Gabriel starts, slapping one of his prominent pecs with one hand, while Beelzebub stares back in disdain, “And you use your back to support the legs and twist when you’re flying. They’re a good solid foundation to start with but they take a load. Can you copy me? I’m going to show you some retraction stretches.”

Gabriel tucked both his hands behind his back, and his shoulders retracted into military posture when he squared them. He tensed and released several times, and Beelzebub could hear tiny popping and cracking noises. His muscles move and stretch, and Beelzebub was careful to hide their _fascination _as they watched the load being shifted between the pectorals and trapezius. Gabriel is certainly…_well formed_, and so it’s easier to see how the movements are supposed to go.

When they copy his stretches, it _hurts_, it feels like agony intensified. Beelzebub grits their teeth and works through it, and after a while, it feels like it’s _helping_. By the time Gabriel finishes his set, Beelzebub is starting to see the benefits. The pain is still there, but it’s getting less sharp, and more manageable. It’s like working through pins and needles on a blood-constricted limb; hurts like hell but after a while, it starts to feel so much more stable.

The next stretch is a shoulder protraction, where Beelzebub pushes forward while their arms are outstretched, and lifts their wings to down-stroke. Both sets of scapulae are working hard, and Gabriel corrects their posture by demonstrating his movements via the mirror until Beelzebub has even the micromovements down. They ‘elevate’ the shoulders, which seems like a pointlessly complicated name for ‘carefully shrugging so their wings are pulled up and forward’, and then ‘depress’ the shoulders by doing the same thing, but while their wings are down and back as far as they can go. Gabriel’s wings are mostly silent, occasional crack and pop aside, but Beelzebub’s wings are _loud_ and angrily howl with painful noises when they move. Their wings sound brittle and crunchy and like the bones of the elderly.

When they get to the final stretch, Gabriel delivered instructions like a sycophantic motivational speaker being paid by the minute. He’d make a great cult leader if his current career took a nosedive. Both of them are reaching towards the ceiling and extending their wings heavenward, and Beelzebub doesn’t even mind that they look completely and utterly ridiculous.

It had _helped_, Beelzebub grudgingly admitted to themselves. Even though Beelzebub has practically been participating in an _illicit angel-demon fitness class_ in a _community hall _(and the thought is enough to make them blanche), they can’t help but feel a little _pleased_. The agony in their wings are still there, but it has been brought back down to normal levels of hurt instead of a cutting-slicing-iron poker one.

It feels like a little bit of long-awaited relief.

“You also stretch out your tendons doing that,” Gabriel continued to babble enthusiastically, “But because your arms move with your wings, you need to do daily exercises to stop the muscles from seizing up too much. Stronger the muscles, stronger the protection you have. I try to get a decent 100 miles in a day, _really _works the pectorals.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes dramatically, “Not much flying room in _Hell_.”

Gabriel gave a one-shoulder shrug, “I fly over the Southern Ocean, and the Pacific Ocean too sometimes. Plenty of room to avoid cameras and humans. Good for long-distance training.”

Beelzebub hums non-committedly but can’t tell if it’s being delivered with a subtle invitation, or just as a bland fact. Left with the awkward atmosphere after an event has been concluded, Gabriel leaned back on his hands and leveled an incredibly cocky grin that had Beelzebub scowling on sight. He is always a little smug, even when he’s being earnest, but that could just be because his face looks like _that_. Nothing is good when Gabriel’s single time-share of a brain cell sparks an idea that makes him open his dumb mouth.

“So, did I make you _feel good, Beelz_,” His grin is positively shit-eating, “Not quite to the level you’ll feel if I got my hands on you, but I’m prepared to wait.”

Gabriel…doesn’t _mean _it. Not exactly in the way it could be interpreted by any human ears. It’s a persona being thrown on, it’s a familiar return to generally harassing each other out of boredom, and just a little bit of hate. They don’t exactly despise each other, really, just in principle. It’s not really despising each other though, just adversarial in nature. They’re like two managers from two competing companies owned by the same parent company.

It’s _complicated_.

Beelzebub leers back, just to throw him, “Let me know when you’re next available, so I can hide poisoned pins under my feathers. I want your _discorporation_ certificate _hanging in my office_,_ Gabriel_.”

“I mean,” Gabriel flusters for a second, “If that’s something you’re into? _Is it_?”

He adds the last part with eyebrows high on his face, looking like he’s accidentally stumbled upon something a tad disturbing. It’s the look of a child who has jumped into water a little too deep and dangerous. The look of a cat who has underestimated a jump. The look of a parent who has forgotten to pick up a child from soccer practice. The look on his face is something personal, something that’s making his ears flush red with something burning.

That’s certainly _interesting_.

Beelzebub narrows their eyes until Gabriel is starting to look a little less unsure. He looks like he’s barely repressing a panic, and they can only tell that because Gabriel’s wide arrogant smile is looking a little nervous in the corners. He’s always been a nervous smiler, and Beelzebub drags their eyes down his bare chest, slowly considering him just to make his ears flush a darker red.

“You’re not,” Gabriel replies hesitantly, “You’re not _actually_ into _discorporation_, are you? That’s a lot of embarrassment and public humiliation, and worse, official paperwork for an interest.”

“Some people pay extra for that,” Beelzebub retorts hotly, before Gabriel’s words actually settle into their brain, “Also, what the hell.”

Gabriel is looking a little nervous, and a tad embarrassed, “I’ve been reading up on human rituals. It’s just interesting, some light casual reading to pass the time. It’s a new interest of mine. It’s weird as anything, you wouldn’t even believe the stuff that humans are into.”

There are…_connections _that Beelzebub’s brain wants to connect. Little pieces of the puzzle that want to be slotted together to make a complex and nuanced picture. The more clarity they are starting to bring, the more Beelzebub wants to put down the metaphorical puzzle and walk very far away.

“Like _what_,” Beelzebub replies flatly, with a tone that is not inviting at all.

Gabriel brightens, “Asking about the other persons' interests, for one, and being actually interested in what they have to say.”

“_How bizarre_.”

“I know, right?” Gabriel lets out a little laugh, “And doing _‘couples activities’ _like walking and yoga, being in a state of undress, physical contact, and also inviting the object of your affections, to new and interesting places. Sometimes, there are also discussions on how humans would like that to be like _verbal_ paperwork.”

Beelzebub let out an odd sound, the puzzle pieces having been swept aside in utter _disbelief_, “Why exactly, is this a new hobby of yours?”

Gabriel gave a little shrug; a roll of his shoulders that Beelzebub could understand from centuries of working alongside him. It said, _‘this is a very long story, and you aren’t going to react well’, _the look on his face said, _‘we only just started talking again, and I’m worried that we’ll return to not talking.’_

“We’ve been talking in Heaven,” Gabriel replied vaguely, “About Crowley and Aziraphale, and the only thing we can agree on is that the only way they could have survived, is if _She_ wanted them to survive. If _She_ protected them.”

Beelzebub is silent.

“And we wanted to figure out why _She _would protect them because if She protected them, _She_ would have to approve of them,” Gabriel dropped his voice, “They’ve been seen – holding hands, and living together in a cottage. They order Thai food on Wednesdays. Maybe they _eat_ it _together_.”

“Wild.” Beelzebub retorted flatly.

“And we pulled records, what _She_ has asked of us, and we commanded us to be creatures of Love – She didn’t specify a _kind_ of love. That’s a human concept – that love has different brands. It’s all the same stuff – it’s the behaviours that are different,” Gabriel paused, “She didn’t specify _what_ behaviours She wanted us to do to _express_ Love, exactly. And if She approves of Aziraphale and the snake, then She approves of that behaviour. Of the _canoodling_ kind.”

“Testing a hypothesis then,” Beelzebub drawled, and leaned back on their hands to draw a little space in the suddenly stifling room, “Whether a specific kind of love and behaviour to enforce that, is taking away for your love for _Her_. Demons have fallen for less.”

“No,” Gabriel huffed, “_Love is like an ocean_.”

“That’s so easy to say when you haven’t been on the receiving end of _Her_ quote-unquote _Love_,” Beelzebub snapped back, “I can give you ten million Demons who can tell you that Love isn’t evenly given.”

“Love is like an ocean,” Gabriel responded, “Not a bathtub. One person doesn’t have to get out of it, for another to get in. Clever right? I found it in a _Cosmopolitan_.”

“_Antichrist_,” Beelzebub swore, “Are you doing dirty quizzes?”

“The ocean is made of water – that’s the metaphor for _love_,” Gabriel clarified, “But underneath the ocean, it’s deep in some places and shallower in others – that’s the metaphor for different _people_. If Love is all the same, and the rest is behaviours and choices – and we can see the choices and behaviours of some being protected _then_\- “

“You’ve been having an existential crisis and you figured taking your shirt off and stretching was going to solve it?” Beelzebub retorted, crossing their arms firmly.

“_Yes_?” Gabriel replied, “Well, we’re supposed to be creatures of _Love_, to all things, I think? Not like, what we’ve been doing, but _actively_ loving things. _Gross_. Demons are still part of everything. Love is defined in some magazines as not wanting people to hurt. You were hurting?”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes.

“And,” Gabriel paused, “Behaviours are a _choice_. I haven’t defied her – and I’m not planning to _ever_ – we’re just having some internal audits of policies and procedures and current practices to see if they align with the central mandate.”

“And the point you’re getting to is…?”

“I would like permission to love you,” Gabriel announced, and then added as an afterthought, “_Please_.”

“**_No_**.”

“No?” Gabriel frowned, sitting up straight, “But we were interested in each other’s interests, and we went to a new and interesting place, and there was a couple’s activity?”

“And now we’re _having the discussion_ around that,” Beelzebub shot back, with growing rage, “_Fuck off_. _Fuck you._ I’m not going to be a part of this new Angelic propaganda scheme where you convince yourself that you need to change your entire _arsehole personality_ to bask in God’s fucking light. Go wank off to a cactus. I’m not just a _convenient pawn_ in your quest to get Mummy to love you most of all.”

”I’m not changing _anything_,” Gabriel drew back in surprise, “I don’t give a shit about the humans for example. Except on principle. _Ocean,_ Beelzebub. The entirety of the human race occupies the water inside an ocean-trash. It’s still in the ocean, so I think it counts. Also, that’s disgusting, and I want no part in specifically _bodily fluid_ behaviours right now.”

“What exactly are you proposing then?” Beelzebub narrowed their eyes, “Have you based your entire concept of love from _Cosmopolitan magazines_ and _sex quizzes_?”

“The holding hands thing?” Gabriel reminded them, “Thai food on Wednesdays. I have no need of a cottage, however. It feels extraneous.”

Beelzebub scoffed loudly.

“To clarify, you want a_ friend_,” Beelzebub replied, with an immortal headache growing in their soul, “Why?”

“Because I’m allowed to?” Gabriel responded with a frown.

“Why me, you utter _turkey_,” Beelzebub clarified darkly.

Gabriel shrugged, “I don’t know many Demons. You get your paperwork in on time. You’ve given me ideas for managerial policies and skill development. You have a cool hat. We work well together. You’re not as bad as other demons. You probably won’t kill me. Maybe.”

Beelzebub twitched, “And you think giving a shit, walking and couples activities are going to convince me to eat Thai food with you on a weekly basis? Gosh, are we going to make friendship bracelets?”

“_Absolutely_ not,” Gabriel replied, “There will be _no talking_ during the Thai food _situation_. There is exactly forty minutes between when the delivery driver delivers the food to the angel, and when the demon delivers the empty containers into the rubbish bins. I will collect the food; you will consume the food and return the containers to the appropriate blue bins, after washing the vestigial matter out. Additionally, Aziraphale has classified the specific type of relationship as a ‘best friend’.”

“I’m sure they’re _very close_ best _friends_,” Beelzebub dryly responded, “What exactly am I getting out of this situation? Forty minutes a week to sit next to you and eat in silence. Not exactly an incredibly enticing offer. Is Heaven at least footing the bill? For the Thai?”

“No, I won’t be eating, of course,” Gabriel responded enthusiastically, “I can’t possibly contaminate the architectural temple of my corporation with juices and decaying matter.”

“I’ll agree if you eat a Thai red curry,” Beelzebub responded, “Just one red curry, just the once. We can hardly be best friends if we don’t follow the _exact_ ‘best friend procedure’. What would _She_ say if you were not following all the outlined rules?”

Gabriel faltered.

Beelzebub _preened_.

“I will eat One Thai Red Curry,” Gabriel replied in a small, pained voice, “If, we both give each other a ‘nickname’. The Demon refers to the Principality as ‘angel’, while the Principality calls the Demon ‘my dear’. It is an essential part of the best friend’s policy.”

“If Heaven makes it a policy, there’s going to be a whole lot of more dead angels,” Beelzebub warned, “I will accept nothing less than _my full title_, and you will buy my meals.”

Gabriel frowned.

“I will buy your meals, and we will re-negotiate the use of pet names after we have started completing the _best friends_’ ritual,” Gabriel countered, “And I will be allowed to love you.”

Beelzebub stared back incredulously and then pondered this for a few moments.

“Fine. Do whatever you like, crackpot. I’ll fax over my meal requirements under the standard acquisition form 24 hours prior to the meeting – and we will be meeting somewhere where at least one major crime has taken place. I like to feel _at home_,” Beelzebub grinned broadly, “But I want your scarf. You can have it back on Wednesday if I remember to bring it.”

“Why exactly?” Gabriel narrowed his eyes into slits, “I will know if it has been altered in any way, shape or form.”

“Bragging rights in Hell,” Beelzebub smugly responded, “That’s what I’m going to get out of this.”

Gabriel nodded sharply, but looked a little pained, “Your terms are acceptable. I will draw up a contract and have it faxed over for you to sign, date and notarise where necessary.”

“Right,” Beelzebub replies, “Well, I’m off. Lots of Hellish meetings to get to.”

With that final note, before Gabriel could come to his sense, Beelzebub dashed off to the glass table, and lifted his prized scarf up, and stuffed it in their back pocket. It hangs out to about their knee and is hyper-visible against the dark pinstripe of their pants.

It’s going to cause an absolute _ruckus._

“See you on Wednesday, pigeon,” Beelzebub called out to the surprised and frozen Archangel. With a final finger flick of farewell, they were gone, and Gabriel was left half-dressed and cross-legged on the floor. It was an abrupt ending, and Gabriel was left with an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, which he didn't like one bit.

It will be a long time before he stands, and Wednesday is only a few days away.

**Author's Note:**

> They'll get there eventually. It's a process.


End file.
